With All Despatch (6 page)

He said, “We shall return to
Telemachus,
Mr Paice.”

Even a bloody hand-to-hand fight would have been better than this, he thought. Lady Luck, as Thomas always called it, had been against them from the beginning. He glanced at Paice and was surprised to see his face was stiffly controlled, his anger apparently gone.

Even when they clambered down to the jolly-boat nobody aboard the brig called out or abused them in any way. Delaval was not going to spoil his victory by putting a foot out of place.

Bolitho did not wait for the boat to be hoisted inboard before going below to the cabin.

He half-listened to the usual bustle and noise of a vessel getting under way once more, the creak of the rudder below the transom, a goblet clattering from the table as the cutter heeled over to the wind. Allday was outside the door, having made certain the boat was safely secured. Poor Allday; he would hate to see him disgraced. He bit his lip. There would be others who would be less displeased when he was sent back to Falmouth.

Paice ducked through the door, his coat still black with spray. It was his command but he waited for Bolitho to ask him to be seated. He looked tired and strained, a different person.

Bolitho did not waste time. “I am sorry. You were right, I was mistaken. I shall see that no blame is attached to you. I ordered the chase—” He lifted his hand heavily as if his sleeve was filled with lead shot. “No, hear me out. I told you to fire into her. It is enough. Perhaps I still thought—”

Paice waited and then said, “No, sir, you were
not
mistaken. If anyone is to blame it's me for thinking, even for a moment, that Delaval would be stupid enough to be caught so easily.”

Bolitho looked across the small cabin with its leaping shadows made by the spiralling lanterns.

“Then tell me, what has changed your mind?”

Paice said calmly, “Delaval
knew
we were out there, sir. And he needed us to know that he had outwitted us.”

“You mean it was all a lie?”

“Not all of it.” Paice clenched his fists several times, as if they were detached from the apparent calm he was displaying. “That dead man was never killed by a falling block, sir. That's why the bastard wanted me to see his face.”

“You knew him?”

“He was my informant. The one who told me about the run.”

“And there's nothing we can do about it.”

Paice gave a deep sigh. “Delaval is a Channel Islander by birth. It's rumoured he had to leave Jersey because of his cruelty when he commanded a privateer there.”

Bolitho tried to shut out the picture of the vicious mark Tuke had branded on Viola's naked shoulder when he had held her captive. But the picture would not fade, and he could still hear Tuke's sneers as they had circled around each other on
Narval'
s bloodied deck, their swords seeking an opening.

He heard himself say quietly, “I knew another like that.”

Paice watched him for several seconds. “Probably tortured him after they had discovered he was informing on the smugglers. Then murdered him. Or maybe he was trading information to others. Either way they've done for him, and we can't prove a thing.” He took a long, deep breath which seemed to come from his shoes.

“So you see, sir, you
were
right.
Loyal Chieftain
acted as a decoy for something else, but Delaval couldn't resist putting his own touch to it for my benefit. But one day—” He did not continue. He had no need.

Paice groped his way bent double to the door. “Do you wish to rendezvous with
Wakeful,
sir?”

Bolitho stared at him. “
Wakeful?
That's it, by God! Only
Wakeful
knew I was transferring back to your ship!”

Paice rubbed his chin fiercely even though he was still bent over in the doorway.

“Surely you don't think—”

Bolitho felt the shivers again up his spine.

“I don't know Delaval, but I
do
understand men like him. He showed no interest in me, not even curiosity—it was you he wanted to humiliate and impress—do you not see that?”

Paice nodded grimly. “I'm afraid I do, sir.”

Bolitho said, “Let us take a glass together before you change tack.” He reached over and impetuously touched the big lieutenant's arm.

“The battle's not lost after all. But I fear for the casualties when the fight is over!”

Allday heard the change in Bolitho's voice, could almost see his shoulders lifting again.

He gave a slow grin as Bolitho added, “So let's be about it, eh?”

4. DIVIDED
L
OYALTIES

T
HE HOUSE
which Commodore Ralph Hoblyn occupied and used as his personal headquarters was an elegant, square building of red brick with a pale, stone portico.

Bolitho reined in his horse and looked at the house for a full minute. It was not an old building, he decided, and the cobbled driveway which led between some pillared gates was well kept, with no trace of weeds to spoil it. And yet it had an air of neglect, or a place which had too many occupiers to care. Behind him he heard the other horse stamping its hooves on the roadway and could almost feel Young Matthew's excitement as he shared the pride and privilege of accompanying Bolitho on this warm, airless evening.

Bolitho recalled the angry waves and the brig's sail being ripped apart by it. It could have been another ocean entirely. There was a smell of flowers in the air, mixed as ever with that of the sea which was never far away.

The house was less than a mile from the dockyard at Sheerness where the two cutters had returned that morning.

A lieutenant had brought the invitation to Bolitho. It had been more like a royal command, he thought grimly.

He saw the glint of steel and the scarlet coats of two marines as they stepped across the gateway, attracted possibly by the sound of horses.

He had seen several pickets on the way here. It was as if the navy and not the local felons and smugglers were under siege. His mouth tightened. He would try to change that—always provided Commodore Hoblyn did not order him to leave.

He tried to recall all he could about the man. A few years older than himself, Hoblyn had also been a frigate captain during the American Rebellion. He had fought his ship
Leonidas
at the decisive battle of the Chesapeake, where Admiral Graves had failed to bring de Grasse to a satisfactory embrace.

Hoblyn had engaged a French frigate and a privateer singlehanded. He had forced the Frenchman to strike, but as he had closed with the privateer his own ship had exploded in flames. Hoblyn had continued to fight, and even boarded and seized the privateer before his ship had foundered.

It had been said that the sight of Hoblyn leading his boarders had been enough to strike terror into the enemy. His uniform had been ablaze, one arm burning like a tree in a forest fire.

Bolitho had met him only once since the war. He had been on his way to the Admiralty to seek employment. He had not even looked like the same man. His arm in a sling, his collar turned up to conceal some of the terrible burns on his neck, he had seemed a ghost from a battlefield. As far as Bolitho knew he had never obtained any employment. Until now.

Bolitho urged his mount forward. “Come, Matthew, take care of the horses. I shall have some food sent to you.”

He did not see the awe on the boy's face. Bolitho was thinking of Allday. It was so out of character not to ask, to demand to accompany him. Allday mistrusted the ways of the land, and hated being parted from Bolitho at any time. Perhaps he was still brooding over their failure to catch the smugglers. It would all come out later on. Bolitho frowned. But it would have to wait.

He had spoken with Lieutenant Queely aboard
Wakeful
before leaving Sheerness. It was like a missing part of a puzzle.
Wakeful
had seen nothing, and the revenue men had had no reports of a run. Testing him out? Like Delaval's elaborate and calculated display of the dead man, Paice's informant. Cat and mouse.

He nodded to the corporal at the gate who slapped his musket in a smart salute, the pipeclay hovering around him in the still air. Bolitho was glad he had declined a carriage. Riding alone had given him time to think if not to plan. He smiled ruefully. It had also reminded him just how long it was since he had sat a horse.

Young Matthew took the horses and waited as a groom came forward to lead him to the stables at the rear of the house. Bolitho climbed the stone steps and saw the fouled anchor above the pillars, the stamp of Admiralty.

As if by magic the double doors swung inwards noiselessly and a dark-coated servant took Bolitho's hat and boat cloak, the latter covered with dust from the steady canter along an open road.

The man said, “The commodore will receive you shortly, sir.” He backed away, the cloak and hat carried with great care as if they were heated shot from a furnace.

Bolitho walked around the entrance hall. More pillars, and a curved stairway which led up to a gallery. Unlike the houses he had seen in London, it was spartan. No pictures, and few pieces of furniture.
Temporary,
that described it well, he thought, and wondered if it also indicated Hoblyn's authority here. He looked through a window and caught the glint of late sunlight on the sea.
Or mine.
He tried not to think about Queely. He could be guilty, or one of his people might have found a way to pass word to the smugglers. News did not travel by itself.

It was like being in a dark room with a blind man. Uniform, authority, all meaningless. A fight which had neither beginning nor end. Whereas at sea you held the obedience and efficiency of your ship by leadership and example. But the enemy was always visible, ready to pit his wits against yours until the final broadside brought down one flag or the other.

Here it was stealth, deceit, and murder.

As a boy Bolitho had often listened to the old tales of the Cornish smugglers. Unlike the notorious wreckers along that cruel coastline, they were regarded as something vaguely heroic and daring. The rogues who robbed the rich to pay the poor. The navy had soon taught Bolitho a different story. Smugglers were not so different from those who lured ships on to the rocks where they robbed the cargoes and slit the throats of helpless survivors. He found that he was gripping his sword so tightly that the pain steadied his sudden anger.

He felt rather than heard a door opening and turned to see a slim figure framed against a window on the opposite side of the room.

At first he imagined it was a girl with a figure so slight. Even when he spoke his voice was soft and respectful, but with no trace of servility.

The youth was dressed in a very pale brown livery with darker frogging at the sleeves and down the front. White stockings and buckled shoes, a gentle miniature of most servants Bolitho had met.

“If you will follow me, Captain Bolitho.”

He wore a white, curled wig which accentuated his face and his eyes, which were probably hazel, but which, in the filtered sunlight, seemed green, and gave him the quiet watchfulness of a cat.

Across the other room and then into a smaller one. It was lined from floor to ceiling with books, and despite the warmth of the evening a cheerful fire was burning beneath a huge painting of a sea-fight. There were chairs and tables and a great desk strategically placed across one corner of the room.

Bolitho had the feeling that all the worthwhile contents of the house had been gathered in this one place.

He heard the young footman, if that was his station here, moving to the fire to rearrange a smouldering log into a better position. There was no sign of the commodore.

The youth turned and looked at him. “He will not be long, sir.” Then he stood motionless beside the flickering fire, his hands behind his back.

Another, smaller door opened and the commodore walked quickly to the desk and slid behind it with barely a glance.

He seemed to arrange himself, and Bolitho guessed it came of long practice.

Just a few years older than himself, but they had been cruel ones. His square face was deeply lined, and he held his head slightly to one side as if he was still in pain. His left arm lay on the desk and Bolitho saw that he wore a white fingerless glove like a false hand, to disguise the terrible injuries he had endured for so long.

“I am pleased to see you, Bolitho.” He had a curt, clipped manner of speech. “Be seated
there
if you will, I can see you the better.”

Bolitho sat down and noticed that Hoblyn's hair was completely grey, and worn unfashionably long, doubtless to hide the only burns which probed above his gold-laced collar.

The youth moved softly around the desk and produced a finely cut wine jug and two goblets.

“Claret.” Hoblyn's eyes were brown, but without warmth. “Thought you'd like it.” He waved his right arm vaguely. “We shall sup later.” It was an order.

They drank in silence and Bolitho saw the windows changing to dusky pink as the evening closed in.

Hoblyn watched the youth refilling the goblets.

“You've been luckier than most, Bolitho. Two ships since that bloody war, whereas—” He did not finish it but stared instead at the large painting.

Bolitho knew then it was his last battle. When he had lost his
Leonidas
and had been so cruelly disfigured.

Hoblyn added, “I heard about your, er—misfortunes in the Great South Sea.” His eyes did not even blink. “I'm told she was an admirable woman. I am sorry.”

Bolitho tried to remain calm. “About this appointment—”

Hoblyn's disfigured hand rose and fell very lightly.
“In good time.”

He said abruptly, “So this is how they use us, eh? Are we relics now, the pair of us?” He did not expect or wait for an answer. “I am bitter sometimes, and then I think of those who have
nothing
after giving their all.”

Bolitho waited. Hoblyn needed to talk.

“It's a hopeless task if you let it be so, Bolitho. Our betters bleat and protest about the Trade, while they filch all they can get from it. Their Lordships demand more men for a fleet they themselves allowed to rot while they flung those same sailors on the beach to starve!
Damn them,
I say! And you can be sure that when war comes, as come it must, I shall be cast aside to provide a nice posting for some admiral's cousin!” He waited until his goblet was refilled. “But I love this country which treats her sons so badly. You know the French as well as I—do you see them stopping now?” He gave a harsh laugh. “And when they come we shall have to pray that those murderous scum have lopped off the heads of all their best sea-officers. I see no chance for us otherwise.”

Bolitho tried to remember how many times the youth had refilled his goblet. The claret and the heat from the fire were making his mind blur.

He said, “I have to speak about the
Loyal Chieftain,
sir.”

Hoblyn held his head to a painful angle. “Delaval? I know what happened, and about the man who was killed too.” He leaned forward so that his fine shirt frothed around the lapels of his coat. A far cry from the tattered veteran Bolitho had seen years ago on his way to the Admiralty.

Hoblyn dropped his voice to a husky growl. “Someone burned down the man's cottage while you were at sea—I'll lay odds you didn't know
that!
And his wife and children have vanished into thin air!” He slumped back again, and Bolitho saw sweat on his face.

“Murdered?” One word, and it seemed to bring a chill to the overheated room.

“We shall probably never know.” He reached out to grasp his goblet but accidentally knocked it over so that the claret ran across the desk like blood.

Hoblyn sighed. “Damn them all.” He watched his footman as he deftly mopped up the wine and replaced the goblet with a clean one.

“But life can have its compensations—”

Just for a brief instant it was there. The merest flicker of an exchange between them. The youth did not smile and yet there was an understanding strong enough to feel.

Hoblyn said offhandedly, “You have
Snapdragon
in Chatham dockyard?”

Bolitho shook himself. Maybe he was mistaken. He glanced quickly at the footman's pale eyes. They were quite empty.

“Yes, sir. I thought it best—”

“Good thinking. There'll not be much time later on. Our lords and masters want results. We shall give them a few.” He smiled for the first time. “Thought I was going to bite your head off, did ye? God damn it, Bolitho, you're what I need, not some knothead who's never heard a shot fired in bloody earnest!”

Bolitho pressed his shoulders against the chairback. There was something unnerving about Hoblyn. But under the bluster and the bitterness his mind was as sharp and as shrewd as it had ever been. If he was like this with everyone the slender footman must have heard every secret possible. Was he to be trusted?

Hoblyn added, “The big East Indiamen are among the worst culprits, y'know. They come up-Channel after months at sea and they meet with smugglers while they're under way, did you know that?”

Bolitho shook his head. “What is the purpose, sir?”

“John Company's captains like to make a little extra profit of their own, as if they don't get enough. They sell tea and silks directly to the Trade and so avoid paying duty themselves. The Customs Board don't like it, but with so few cutters to patrol the whole Channel and beyond, what can they expect?” He watched Bolitho calmly. “Wine and brandy is different. Smaller runs, less chance of the buggers getting caught. But tea, for instance, is light but very bulky.” He tapped the side of his nose with the little white bag. “Not so easy, eh?”